Anne Bronte

Anne Bronte

1,000 карма
United Kingdom (Great Britain)

The Captive Dove

Poor restless dove,
I pity thee;
And when I hear thy plaintive moan,
I mourn for thy captivity,
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Gloomily the Clouds

Gloomily the clouds are sailingO'er the dimly moonlit sky;
Dolefully the wind is wailing;
Not another sound is nigh;
Only I can hear it
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While on my lonely couch I lie,
I seldom feel myself alone,
For fancy fills my dreaming eye With scenes and pleasures of its own
Then I may cherish at my breast An infant's form beloved and fair,
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Domestic Peace

Why should such gloomy silence reign,
And why is all the house so drear,
When neither danger, sickness, pain,
Nor death, nor want, have entered here
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What though the Sun had left my sky;
To save me from
The blessed Moon arose on high,
And shone serenely there
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O, let me be alone a while,
No human form is nigh
And may I sing and muse aloud,
No mortal ear is by
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Vanitas Vanitatum Omnia Vanitas

In all we do, and hear, and see,
Is restless Toil and Vanity
While yet the rolling earth abides,
Men come and go like ocean tides;
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